To Break A Butterfly Upon A Wheel
by Amynion
Summary: Chained and alone, Aramis is at Rochefort's mercy.
1. Chapter 1

**Note** : Hello friends :D If you've read my stuff before I have one thing to say - you know who I am and you know what I will do. If you haven't, I suppose I'd better warn you that things are going to get torturey and... well, this is a horrible fic and you probably don't want to read it.

Many many months ago I specifically asked people to stop me writing this. The opposite happened. And so cmorgana and snowglory, amongst others, are to blame for this story. Later things that happen are also entirely the fault of donnaimmaculata, just so you know. But I suppose you couldn't really expect the show to threaten Aramis breakage and have me do nothing with it...

Quote is by Friedrich Nietzsche.

* * *

 **To Break A Butterfly Upon A Wheel**

" _Man is the cruelest animal_."

 **Chapter One**

He stood and stared at the bars high above. The small window was the only source of light in this place, though Aramis couldn't reach out to it, shackled as he was. All he could do was watch the light wax and wane. When he closed his eyes he fancied he could feel the warmth of the sun against his face. But perhaps it was just his mind desperately trying to break free since his body could not. His mortal flesh was chained here, bound to the wall like some kept animal.

Aramis closed his eyes and tried not to feel the creeping shadows at his back. He had given up pulling at the chains some time ago. They wouldn't give - not an inch - and it had only served to aggravate his sore wrists. Pacing the small cell gave no relief. The sound of the clanking chains followed him back and forth until he reached their limits and felt a sharp tug on his hands. So he came to stand in the light filtering through the bars. Within the silence even his mind couldn't find the escape it sought. His thoughts circled around the maelstrom of events, his friends… Constance… Anne… What had happened to them all? They could be dead already. Not knowing was a kind of torture in itself. And of course his mind came to settle on one thought, time and again, it was inescapable.

This was his fault.

Even beyond his initial indiscretion with the Queen he had seemingly set out on a path of destruction. Aramis could see it now. He could see it so clearly. He should have kept his distance, just as Athos suggested when they stood before Adele's grave. How could he have ignored such advice? Given in the shadow of his lover's tomb. There would be more buried loved ones before the end. _It was his fault_. Perhaps he would suffer the sight of them, if he were not the first to go. And if he were Aramis would watch the result of his folly from heaven… no, no, the doors were surely shut to him now. He would gaze up through hellfire with bloodied eyes, and endure the torture he deserved.

The light caressing his face suddenly felt like the tender touch of God. Aramis opened his mouth to beg forgiveness. But no words came. Athos was not here to confess for him now. The list of his sins would not flow from his lips - the lips he used to commit so many of them. Surely God did not need words. He could see how far this lost lamb had strayed from the flock. The trail of destruction left behind him was plain to see.

It was not only God's forgiveness he needed. It was his friend's, and the woman he had treated so disdainfully. _Marguerite_. Aramis had been so desperate to see his son. All reason had taken flight. His honour had gone with it. With previous dalliances they were both players in the same game, but if any woman sought to change it to something more serious Aramis would put it right. He had not stooped to telling Marguerite he loved her, but neither could he extricate himself from her arms. To distance himself from her would be to distance himself from his son. Eventually Aramis had come to end it, but the damage was already done.

The light faded as night took its grip on the world. Aramis sank down to the hard ground, but he couldn't sleep. His thoughts wouldn't let him, and he feared what the morning would bring.

 **~oOo~**

Aramis sat cross legged in his cell, eyes once more fixed on the bars beyond his reach. He waited for morning's light to creep across the small window and chase away the lingering shadows. The outside world started to wake around him, but he still felt the darkness at his back. It crept into his heart, filling his chest with a heavy dread. Suddenly sounds of commotion filtered down through the bars. Aramis got to his feet and stepped forwards, straining to listen at the limit of his chains. He couldn't see, but he could hear. Something was happening to Constance.

This was his fault.

Something in Aramis wanted to shout and scream and rail against his bonds. He simply stood silent and empty. Held down under the weight of what he had done. The light from above suddenly felt cold, harsh and devoid of God. Aramis exhaled a deep breath and went to slump against the wall. He fell into the embrace of shadows, trapped, just listening. There was no God in the light… there was no God, not any more. How could he see the innocent punished?

But then Aramis considered that maybe this was his punishment. To witness the consequences of his actions. To suffer before his own end.

A sudden shot rang out, and a cry of pain followed in its wake.

There were shouts. Familiar shouts! His brothers were out there!

Aramis flew to the window, only to be jerked back violently by his wrists. In his haste he had forgotten the chains. For a moment hope chased away all darkness. There was a rescue! Constance would be safe! They would come for him!

The sorrow and despair he felt was replaced by frustration that he couldn't see. It sounded like a battle was being waged in the yard above, and it was inches away from his sight. The clatter of horse hooves filtered down to him. That must have been Constance riding away. They would come for him… They would come.

An explosion rocked the world and nearly shook Aramis from his feet. He recovered and stepped forwards again, straining against his bonds.

The commotion from the yard died down. All that was left were angry shouts… _furious_ shouts. Rochefort.

He waited and waited until silence descended, and then Aramis fell back from the window. He kept retreating until he felt his back hit the wall.

They were not coming…

His brothers had left him.

For a moment Aramis looked up to the light and saw a flash of Marsac walking away in the snow. He turned away and a raven watched from the darkness, black feathers melted away into the shadowed cell corner. A series of blinks revealed it to be nothing but the beady eyes of a rat. Aramis took in a harsh breath and let it out slowly.

He had been left behind. Forgotten again.

Or worse.

Perhaps he had not been forgotten, perhaps he had been abandoned. Maybe his friends had forsaken all forgiveness and decided to leave him to his fate.

Aramis sank down to his knees and curled in on himself, trying to keep in the pain that wanted to run screaming from his chest. It was nothing less than he deserved.

Uncountable moments passed before the sound of the door scraping open had Aramis on his feet.

Rochefort stepped in, and Aramis sauntered forwards, trying to summon the confidence he had felt in facing the man down before.

"Are you going to torture me?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Are you going to torture me?"

"Well, that depends on whether you're going to confess to your crimes. Will you?" Rochefort's voice was deceptively calm. A quiet rage burned behind his eye.

"I have committed no crime."

Rochefort smiled. "Very well."

The blow came from nowhere. Aramis' jaw exploded in pain and he found himself reeling backwards. Rochefort caught the chains in one hand and pulled him forwards again. With another yank Aramis lost his footing and found himself on his knees before Rochefort. He spat a stream of blood at the man's feet.

Rochefort gently held Aramis' face. He wanted to flinch away from the man's creeping touch, but he wouldn't give Rochefort the satisfaction of his discomfort.

"Are you sure you won't change your mind?"

Aramis glared. "I have committed no crime."

"I was hoping you would say that." The gentle hand turned to a tight grip about Aramis' jaw. His fingers dug in like claws. "If you change your mind, I will stop."

Rochefort reached behind his back and drew out his dagger. He brought the tip to Aramis' eye and let it hang an inch away.

Aramis drew in a harsh breath and tried to stay very, very still.

"Maybe if I put out your eyes and scar this pretty face she'll find you less attractive. Perhaps I will make a mess of you and parade the ruins about in front of her. You won't be able to see her tears, but you'll be able to hear them well enough."

"Do what you like, it will not be enough. She will never look at you the same way she does me, even weeping is more than you will ever get from her. She despises you."

The tip of the dagger was quickly drawn away and the pommel crashed down into his head instead. Aramis waited for his vision to right and when it did he was flat on his back in the dirt of his cell. Rochefort straddled him, his arm was pressed into Aramis' throat while the other held his dagger aloft.

"And she will despise you before the end. If she gets to live, she will no longer be Queen of France but some pitiful exiled nobody… and that is _if_ she gets to live. The memory of your brief time together will fade and she will come to curse the wretch that did this to her."

"You." Aramis managed to choke out. "You did this."

Rochefort laughed and sat back, releasing his hold. "Me? I am just drawing out the poison for all to see. The treason is yours."

Aramis heaved in a great breath.

And then Rochefort pulled open Aramis' doublet and shirt, bringing the tip of the dagger to trace against the skin of his chest.

"There is an art to torture that many don't appreciate."

Aramis swallowed heavily at the feel of cold steel against his flesh, but he remained silent.

"Most think it mindless brutality. But you can't just hack away at a man like a slab of meat. There is a subtlety to it. To hurt without causing damage." A little pressure was put to the dagger and it dug into Aramis' skin. "To take a man to the threshold of the abyss and let him stare into it. To let him long for it, and when he cries out for the end - to drag him back."

Another shallow cut wound its way down Aramis' ribs. Blood welled up, but he didn't so much as wince.

"I won't let you die. Not here." The dagger did its work. "That comes later. And you will die, Aramis. Nothing can save you from that fate. The question is simply how many you take with you. Confess and the Queen and your son will be allowed to live in exile. What do you say?"

Aramis simply glared. He knew not to trust the promises of this man. Rochefort could unchain his hands and leave the door open, he would still not walk through.

"Nothing? No matter, we have yet to get to work. They always start out silent, they never end that way... Now I was beneath the hand of a master in Spain. I learnt much from Vargas. He kept a well stocked torture chamber too, but I don't need any toys. Even the simplest of things can cause such torment."

Suddenly Rochefort dug his fingers into one of the cuts on Aramis' chest. It had stung before, it was nothing more than an annoyance. But now it _hurt_. Aramis stiffened as Rochefort's fingers forced the flesh open and dug deeper. Blood wept from the wound when he pulled back.

Aramis breathed hard and rolled to one side as Rochefort got to his feet. The man wandered away and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his hands. For a few moments he simply watched Aramis, as if he were taking the man apart with his eyes.

When Aramis tried to get up he was stopped by Rochefort's foot on the chains, pinning his hands to the floor.

"There is one way guaranteed to get screams out of a man." Rochefort took Aramis shackled hands and moved his foot to rest firmly against the musketeer's burning chest. "Again, such a small simple thing…"

The tip of his dagger went beneath Aramis' fingernail.

Aramis heaved in a great gasp of air against the pain. His body went taut, he tried to stay still. Rochefort's foot was acting as a restraint, and any attempt to shift the man would risk jarring the dagger, forcing it further… Aramis shut his eyes and screwed them up as Rochefort moved on to another finger. On the fourth he let out a whine.

"Is that all I'm going to get? Very well, let's move onto something requiring a little more exertion."

Rochefort let Aramis' hands drop to the ground and went to the guard at the door. Aramis pulled his hands in to his chest and curled up around them, savouring the momentary relief.

"Have him stripped down and hung up. I will be back in a moment."

 **~oOo~**

Aramis' chains were suspended from a hook in the ceiling. His shirt had been removed and the chill of the air brought goosebumps to his flesh. The guard held the other end of the chains, forcing Aramis' arms above his head. Together they waited in silence for Rochefort's return.

It let Aramis' thoughts come to torment him again. They told him this was nothing less than he deserved. The musketeer's head hung down against his bloodied chest. This was penance, and Rochefort was not offering punishment. In some twisted way it felt like absolution. The burn of his wounds became a cleansing fire. Would he be allowed into Heaven if he suffered?

Aramis was beginning to lose feeling in his arms by the time Rochefort returned. The man had stripped himself down to his shirt, with the sleeves pushed back to his elbows. In his hands Rochefort held a whip. He lovingly ran his fingers through the dangling tails.

"Here is where the art comes into play. It is easy to flog a man until there's nothing left. It is far harder to flog a man just to the point where he can appreciate the exquisite pain in every fibre of his being. I spent much time with Vargas exploring the limits of human endurance. I always found an escape when he went too far. There comes a point when the mind deserts the body in its torment. I won't let that happen. I want you here with me, Aramis. We'll experience this together." There was a licentious tone in Rochefort's voice that stalled the breath in Aramis' throat. "Before we begin, do you wish to confess?"

Again Aramis repeated the same words he had used before. "I have committed no crime."

Porthos' voice came to him from the ether… _If you really love her there is one thing you can do to prove it. Deny it ever happened._

He would deny it with every word, as long as there was still breath in his body to do so.

"You tell a lot of lies for a man so beholden to God."

The first lick of the whip forced the breath from Aramis' lungs.

"You must know that God has left you."

His skin burned with the next blow.

"Or did you leave God first? I do not believe he looks too kindly on adultery…"

His flesh split, and blood began to run freely with the next few strikes. Pain began to flood his senses, but Aramis let nothing past his lips but a few stray grunts as the whip landed.

With each blow he jerked against the chains and his sore wrists protested the action, but the guard held his weight steady. He remained in place.

"Of course, God isn't the only one to have left you." Rochefort's voice became more strained with the effort he was putting into the lashes. "You must have noticed your friends came to liberate Constance, why did they leave you here?"

His words were aimed at hurting just as much as his whip. The lake of fire across Aramis' back seemed to seep into his heart.

"Perhaps they are disgusted with your actions, your betrayal, just as any right minded person would be. The thought of you with the Queen, rutting, like some animal, like she's nothing more than one of your whores from the street." Something seemed to change in Rochefort, his calm calculated manner was slipping away… "Did she ever mean anything to you? Did you just want to sate your needs?! To use her?!"

Rochefort dropped the whip and took the back of Aramis neck in one hand, cruelly driving the fingers of his other into the weeping wounds. Pain smothered Aramis senses, he gasped and arched away.

"I love her!" He yelled, almost involuntarily.

Rochefort stopped. Aramis felt his hands fall away.

"What did you say?" The man's voice was hollow.

The only sound filling the cell was Aramis' harsh breathing.

"What did you say?" Rochefort repeated. A seething anger crept into his voice.

"I love her…" Aramis' pain fogged mind let the words quietly slip out again.

"You know nothing of love! _Nothing_!" Rochefort took the whip up again. "You wanted her body! I wanted so much more! You do not know her like I know her! How could you? A common soldier. How dare you even think to put yourself on her level? In what world would you ever be her equal?! You are nothing but a lowly beast!"

Rochefort set to thrashing again, having seemingly forgotten his previous words about art and restraint. "Where is the animal? Let him out, let me see him! Howl for me Aramis, you dog!"

The pain consumed Aramis. He felt on the verge of blacking out, his knees buckled, but the guard's tight hold on the chains meant he remained aloft. His weight simply fell on his abused wrists, adding another layer of agony. Somewhere along the line he had begun to moan, his moans turned into strangled cries, until finally Rochefort got what he wanted and Aramis screamed aloud.

He stopped then.

Rochefort came around to face Aramis. The musketeer's head had dropped to his chest, Rochefort tipped it up to meet his eyes. They blinked, fighting to stay open amidst the agony. Through the mist Aramis perceived his own blood staining Rochefort's fingers. He would have flinched away had he any strength left to move.

"Know this - You are alone. God has deserted you, your friends have left, and love will not save you. You are alone, Aramis."

Rochefort motioned to the guard. He let go of the chains and Aramis fell gracelessly to the ground.

"I think we'll try strappado next."

While Rochefort went to lean against the wall and clean off his hands the guard went to fetch another. Aramis watched through a haze as Rochefort smirked through a sweat stained face. His arms were bound behind him this time. Though as far as Aramis was concerned they could do what they liked, he could barely feel them. The guards suspended him from the hook again, by the wrists. He felt it then, oh God, he felt it… His shoulders screamed, lingering at the point of dislocation. The guards attached the other end of the chains to the wall and left Aramis hanging.

Rochefort stepped forwards, standing inches away from Aramis' trembling, abused body.

"If you confess the King will divorce Her Majesty, disown the Dauphin, and allow both to live in exile. You are beyond saving, but you can save her, Aramis. Just speak the truth." He ran a mockingly gentle hand down the side of Aramis' face. "I will leave you to consider it. I have a trial to arrange."

When Rochefort left, the light from the window caressed Aramis' face in his place.

"God… please…" He didn't manage to say any more before his chin dropped to his chest again.

Pain. Pain ran through every fibre of his being. His mind sought an escape it wouldn't be granted. True to his word Rochefort had kept Aramis from the edge of the precipice. He was awake, and he was here to endure every moment of it. The physical agony as well as that of his soul. He was alone, no God, no friends, no _her_ …

"Please… please forgive me…" The words were meant for those who couldn't hear them.

Would his friends ever forgive him? They had abandoned him, surely that was answer enough.

He was an unforgivable animal. Aramis would pass from this world with his name dragged through the dirt, as blackened as his hellbound soul. There was no absolution to be had from his sins, not through confession, nor Rochefort's torture. But she could be saved. Whatever hope was left was for her. If Rochefort's words were to be believed. And Aramis' heart sank for he knew that they could not… Rochefort could not afford to let the Queen live. She knew too much. She was surely as doomed as he was, and what would become of their child?

It was his fault.

He deserved this. But they did not.

Aramis cried out as his shoulder gave way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Note:** I know the subject of Marguerite and Aramis can be a controversial one in some quarters of fandom. Please note I am not here to analyse show canon/writing, I'm just here to make Aramis suffer :)

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

By the time Rochefort returned Aramis was pale and shaking. His breaths were feeble hitched things. He stared at nothing and didn't acknowledge the Comte's presence. Still, Aramis felt Rochefort's eyes run over him.

"Take him down and clean him up. Put the shoulder back in while you're at it. I need him coherent for questioning."

Aramis cried out when he hit the ground. The guards were not gentle with him. One restrained Aramis while the other shoved at his shoulder. He sucked in a breath and screamed it back out, suddenly feeling the world blur and fade around him. A strike about the face brought him back again. Rough hands wrapped Aramis' wounds and dressed him, then finally a bottle with a strong scent was wafted under his nose. It brought Aramis fully awake in a way he wished it hadn't. His breath came shallow and fast, his heart beat like a scared rabbit, and every inch of him was wracked with pain.

The guards hauled Aramis to his feet.

"Can you stand?"

"I… I think so."

They stepped away from him and watched with a sort of wary doubt. Aramis wavered but remained upright. Just standing felt like an act of defiance. Still, the guards kept close as they led him on. Each step came with a spike of pain, but it also kindled a fire in Aramis' heart. The anger took root as his thoughts turned to Rochefort and everything the vile man had done. By the time he stepped into the makeshift courtroom filled with men of God and men of law, Aramis was ready to spit flames at the Comte.

The trial went much as Aramis had expected. There was little justice to be had in that room. He had at least a chance to shout and rail against Rochefort. Aramis' accusations certainly gave the gathered men something to talk about.

But he had not expected Marguerite.

Her words dismantled Aramis' defences. He saw in her tear stained eyes how she had suffered, how _he_ had caused her to suffer. He had been so blind. He had slinked into her life like the dog Rochefort accused him of being. And he had left the door open for the wolf to get in. Rochefort had her about the throat now, just as his claws were sunk deep into Aramis' flesh.

Aramis had ruined this sweet innocent creature. She had come out of this with nothing, not even a fleeting moment of his love. As if that would have made it worthwhile anyway… Aramis had used her, so completely and thoroughly. He regretted their every moment together. Marguerite didn't deserve to be ruined by an affair that hadn't even been meaningless. It had no meaning. But it wasn't meaningless. It was nothing at all. It was a complete fiction. The only love given had been her's. Aramis fabricated feelings and wove old used words together, spinning the most wonderful lies. Had he even been the slightest bit fond of her? She was a means to an end. Nothing more. And he was sorry, he was so sorry.

Yet here she was clutching at him, calling his name. _Aramis please!_ Why was she pleading? Why was she sorry? The fault was not hers, and she was telling more truth than he was. Her soul was still clean. She shouldn't be sorry. It was his fault, he deserved this.

With his righteous anger stripped away Aramis felt naked and bare before them all. There was a slight tremble to his frame, he hoped nobody noticed.

" _You have deceived the court. But worse, you have betrayed the King, the man you are sworn to serve, in the foulest possible way. No doubt you hoped to save your lover, the Queen, but you have only condemned her and damned your own soul._ "

Rochefort's words tore Aramis apart more than any torture. Something in him seemed to crack.

" _You are to be taken from here to await execution in a manner appropriate to your heinous crimes."_

Aramis stood, vacant and blank, wordless, hopeless.

And then he was removed, taken back to his cell and his chains. Aramis sat alone, wreathed in shadow, waiting to die.

 **~oOo~**

As time passed by in the dank cell fear began to take root in Aramis' heart. Despite the pain of his wounds he was driven to pull against his chains once more. Aramis came to rest against the wall, panting. There was a distinct waver to his voice as he promised himself to God in exchange for mercy. He did not get long to make his promise… _This was it, this was it_ … The sound of the door creaking open reached him, and Aramis allowed the fear to take hold for just one moment. His breath came harshly as he bent over and screwed his eyes tight shut. Then Aramis straightened, and struggled to his feet, feeling a strange sort of calm wash over him.

"My soul is prepared."

He turned to face Rochefort.

"You are to be broken upon the wheel." The Comte sauntered forwards and leaned into Aramis' space. "Make no mistake, there will be no coups de grâce. It will be slow, and you will suffer."

Aramis swallowed thickly.

"I've heard tell of men lingering on for days afterwards. They call out for death, but there's nobody there to hear, except for the carrion crows. The birds won't wait for your last breath before moving in." Rochefort quietly considered Aramis' downcast eyes a moment before stepping back. "Make your peace with God, the sentence is to be carried out shortly."

Rochefort made his way back to the door, just pausing on the threshold to look over his shoulder. "Oh, I thought you would like to know - The Lady Marguerite has been found dead. She took her own life."

That drew Aramis' shocked attention to Rochefort's smug little smile. The strength left his legs and he fell to retch into the dirt on his hands and knees.

It was his fault.

Marguerite killed herself because of him. Aramis felt the ghost of her touch as she clutched at his hands. How could she have felt responsible for their ruin? None of this was her doing. If it were not for Aramis she would be leading a charmed life as a governess with no hint of scandal or fear. Now she was dead. Aramis let a broken sound escape his throat. Why didn't he listen to Athos all those many months ago? He should have stayed away! Why did he not stay away?!

Aramis recalled his own words standing before Adele's grave that day. _Every woman I truly love dies._

But he hadn't even loved Marguerite. To his eternal shame. Maybe he was just doomed to bring death and destruction to all of the lives he touched. Well, he need not fear ruining another. It would be over soon.

The wheel was waiting for him, and part of Aramis welcomed it.

He curled up on his side and embraced the pain of his wounds. How much pain must Marguerite have been in to have taken her own life? The pain he felt was well deserved. Aramis had strayed where he should not have done too many times, and now he was reaping what he had sown.

 **~oOo~**

The guards came for him. Everything felt like it was happening too slowly. They unlocked Aramis' chains and the metal links took an eternity to fall to the floor. The clinking sound of their descent echoed around the small room. Not a word was spoken between them. Aramis' heart was racing as fast as his fleeting thoughts. He hardly registered their ascent from the prison. His mind was a ceaseless flurry of dead lovers, absent friends, impossible love and his child.

Before he knew it Aramis stepped out into the yard. He couldn't appreciate the breath of fresh air or the scant rays of sunlight, for he had reached the end of his path, and it led to death. A wooden platform stood before him with a large cartwheel raised upon it. A shiver ran through Aramis at the sight of it. He was led forwards, and for a moment he looked skyward, silently asking God for whatever forgiveness he felt he could grant.

This was it. He was going to die, and nothing could save him.

He was going to die. He was always going to die of course. Men were born to die. They came from dust and returned to dust. But Aramis had thought his end would be a heroic one in the midst of battle. Perhaps he would have given his life for one of his brothers. The brothers who had turned their backs on him. But having thought on the inevitability of death, it suddenly didn't matter. Whether he saved his brothers or not they would die. Whatever his actions Marguerite would have died eventually. Their names and deeds would be forgotten and it would be as if they had never existed at all.

Even Anne and his son would pass from this world in time. Aramis' heart gave a lurch at the thought. Perhaps they would be remembered through a line in a book for the annals of history at least. Time would roll on and those that came after would know her name but not her smile or kind, gentle nature. That seemed the only purpose to life now - to take the smiles and happiness, and enjoy them while the moment lasted. It only came to Aramis now, on the brink of having his life torn away. But perhaps it had always been a part of who he was. He was always quick to love and laugh, somehow knowing in his heart of hearts it wouldn't last.

Aramis lay down upon the wheel without a fight. Some part of the basal instinctive animal inside him knew what was happening and wanted to rail against it, but he choked it down. He didn't want the final indignity of falling apart. To die in this way was dishonourable enough.

Aramis winced as his arm was pulled out to be bound to the wheel. His sore shoulder protested the motion. And then a voice called out across the yard.

"Nail him to it."

Aramis turned his head to see Rochefort ascending a set of stairs across the yard. He felt sick at seeing the Comte leading Anne up alongside him. She walked gracefully but Aramis had not failed to notice Rochefort held her wrist in a tight grip, and despite the distance it was clear to see she had been crying. She still was.

The urge to fight reared up in Aramis' heart again. He walked like a lamb to the slaughter, but suddenly seeing Anne under threat awoke the lion in him. Just as Aramis made to growl and pull away from the hands holding him down he shot up and loosed a scream. A nail had gone through his palm and into the wood. Pain assaulted him as blood welled up and ran around the small spike. The guards pushed Aramis back down and wrestled his other arm into submission. Another scream echoed around the yard.

As they moved to his legs Aramis stared straight up at the blue sky and silently called out to Saint Catherine, begging for her power to shatter the wheel beneath him. But there was no divine intervention. No voice spoke to him but that of a snake whispering in his ear.

"God won't help you now, you're bound for hell, and you know it." Rochefort's fetid breath tainted the air by Aramis' face. When had he moved so close? Aramis hadn't noticed… nor did he know he was calling out for God.

"Leave… her…" He managed to grit out.

"She was mine long before you came along, and she will be mine again before the end." Rochefort hissed.

That fed the fire set at Aramis' heart. "She was never yours!"

"But she will be. Who is going to stop me now? You will die and leave her unprotected. Your friends have abandoned you and her both. Only the King is left, and he is maddened by grief. Know that I have a death warrant with her name on it…"

Aramis growled and pulled away from the wheel. But it tore at his mangled hands and he fell back, gasping. "Spare her. You have me. This was all my doing!"

"She will have a choice - to take me back, or die. That is the only way she will be spared."

If that was the choice Aramis wondered if death were the better option.

Rochefort straightened and loomed over Aramis' face, locking his cold, blue eyes onto the musketeer's own. "I have only to decide what to do with the child." A cruel grin split his features. "Leave it out for the wolves perhaps…"

Aramis took in a harsh breath and bared his teeth, knowing that all threats would be useless. He couldn't possibly harm Rochefort now, nailed to a wheel, moments from death as he was. "You will burn in hell for this."

"Perhaps I will see you there. Give my regards to the devil when you meet him. Now forgive me, Anne and I have an execution to watch."

Rochefort disappeared from view, leaving an open patch of blue sky in sight. It was too pleasant a day to die. Aramis turned his head to one side, locking fearful eyes with Anne. Her tear stained face was tainted with an agony that surpassed his own.

"Don't look! Whatever happens, don't look..." He managed to call out across the yard.

But Rochefort was at her side moments later with a hand tightly squeezing her arm. He leaned in to whisper at her ear and Anne's eyes closed letting fresh tears fall.

Aramis looked back to the sky and took in a deep breath. It was a blue too perfect to be believed. He suddenly wished he had taken more time to appreciate how blue the sky was, how a slight breeze caressed your skin, or how trees seemed to whisper amidst a downpour. There would be nothing left to him now but the fires of hell.

And he would have to endure the torments of humanity first.

Aramis closed his eyes and let his heart call out. _God, please, make this quick. I have wronged you and so many others, but you must know that my heart was always faithful. If you can do nothing for me then give her the strength to endure what is to come, and receive my son with open arms_.

"Start with the right arm."

There was a brief pause in which Aramis tried to steel himself, and then the club came down. He felt his upper arm break between the gap in the wheel, and he screamed out with the agony of it.

While crying out Aramis waited for the next blow to fall. But it didn't come. Rochefort was letting him feel it... every exquisite moment of pain. He had promised to make it slow. This was beyond torture. The ends of his bones grated together, stealing Aramis' breath away. He tried to stay still, but he was having to gasp for air around the small sounds of pain he couldn't help but make.

"In manus tuas... Domine, commendo spiritum meum…" Latin spilled from Aramis' lips in bursts with his halting breath. It seemed to slip out without him noticing, but it was not holding the agony at bay. God had left him here with the devil just as his friends had.

Somewhere in the yard there was the sound of a slap and a harsh voice. "I told you not to look away!"

Aramis let his head loll to one side and he found Anne. She seemed inconsolable. Neither one of them could find an escape and so they seemed to find a sort of solace in each other's eyes. He would give anything to see her smile one last time. Thinking it might lend her strength he tried to summon a smile of his own. Aramis only managed to twitch the corner of his mouth before Rochefort called out across the yard.

"Again!"

The strike came to his lower arm, it stole the breath from his lungs and the smile from his face. Aramis thought he might have heard Anne call out, but it could have been his own cry echoing around the yard. He wished he could cut off his own arm to separate the pain of it from the rest of him. Aramis senses deserted him. The blue sky turned dim and distant, all sound began to fade away save for one...

"Aramis!"

Anne, it was Anne calling his name.

And he had just enough about him to give one last shout. "I lo-"

"Right leg!" Rochefort spoke over him.

And then he was gone. Lost in a sea of pain. There were shouts and shots, without or within, Aramis didn't know. There was nothing tangible to hold on to except agony. He was sure the fires of hell were reaching out to him, ready to claim his soul from his body. But between the flames there was a stray distant vision he tried to hold onto. Long grass waving back and forth around three figures. Himself, Anne, with long locks of hair loose around her shoulders, and their son tottering between them. She was simply dressed and no less beautiful for it. Aramis saw a glimpse of the life they could have had if duty and station were not in the way. If she were not the Queen and his son were not the Dauphin. Why had fate ensnared their hearts with a love that could never be? Her smile warmed his heart, his son's small hands reached out to him, but just before they touched everything fell into darkness.

It was a life he could never have. Not even in dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

" _Hush… hush, you're safe now."_

" _What's wrong?"_

" _Nothing, he was just calling out again. Go back to sleep."_

" _Well I'm awake now, you get some rest. I'll sit with him."_

Snatches of conversation wove around the impenetrable mist surrounding Aramis. For a moment he thought he was dead, but he quickly dismissed the notion. His body hurt, but it was muted, and far from the torture of hellfire. Just as he seemed to grasp on to a solid thought it slipped away and the mist moved in, sweeping him off into oblivion. There was a sort of relief in it. He was entirely unaware. Aramis was not sad, not angry, nor lonely. He was nothing. And it gave him peace.

" _Aramis?"_

" _Is he awake?"_

" _No… I thought he was stirring for a minute there, but he's gone again."_

" _We'll need to change his bandages. Can you sit him up?"_

The muted pain flared up and Aramis drifted. Images of faces he vaguely remembered knowing passed before him. Distant faded times ebbed and flowed all around, and though names escaped him Aramis keenly felt the half remembered emotions of those days. They ran through love and shades of regret, but sorrow smothered them all like a blanket. And he suddenly wanted to know those names and faces, he needed to know them. They slipped through his fingers like saltwater but he kept searching through an ocean of tears, determined to find answers.

Something seemed to warn him away. As if to say - Don't look, you won't like what you find. But the peace he felt in the mist became uneasy. A battle waged within him. He remembered, and then forgot, before forgetting again and remembering less. Aramis was something else in these places amid the places. Caught between sleeping and waking, remembering and forgetting, he was innocent, he was free. Whatever he sought was scarred and covered in a patina of pain. But still that need to know deep within in him scratched away at the surface, wanting to break free and breathe.

His efforts were rewarded when a name slipped through - Anne. It brought with it the memory of a gentle smiling face, and Aramis suddenly found the strength to throw off the fog. As it cleared her face fell and tears replaced the smile. It hit him then. All at once. All of the names and faces and things that he had done. He was torn asunder, suddenly awash with all the pain that he had ever known.

He was no longer innocent. He was a sinner, a destroyer. He didn't deserve to live. The monster that Aramis had become lurched pained in front of him, and he hated it. He longed for the mist to come back and cover him in ignorance again. Being nothing was better than being _this_.

This time the voice that Aramis heard did not drift around a thick mist, it came from beside him.

"Shh… It's over. You're safe."

He felt a hand run through his hair, and Aramis dimly perceived he was staring at Porthos through blurred eyes.

"He's awake?"

"I'm not sure. He's crying, but doesn't seem quite with us."

Athos stepped into view and handed Porthos a cloth. He used it to wipe at Aramis' cheeks.

"Aramis? Can you speak?"

One word slipped from his lips in a hoarse voice. "Anne…"

Athos seemed to sigh in relief.

Porthos sat back with a similarly relieved expression on his face. "She's safe, so is the Dauphin. It's over, Aramis. Vargas told the King everything."

Aramis' eyes closed at feeling a weight lift from his chest. "Rochefort?"

"Dead." Porthos seemed as if he tried to smile but couldn't.

Aramis frowned, the man would not have gone down easily. "Alright? Everyone… alright?"

Athos came to sit on the end of his bed. "Yes, we're all fine. More than fine in d'Artagnan's case. He married Constance - you missed the wedding."

The frown disappeared. "Sorry…"

Athos gave his leg a gentle pat through the covers. "We'll convey your apologies to him."

And then Aramis came to realise something - His brothers had not abandoned him.

He managed a faint smile. "You came… You came for me."

"Of course we did. I only regret we didn't reach you sooner." Athos' eyes wandered to Aramis' arm.

Aramis looked down to find it splinted, heavily wrapped, and bound to his chest.

He frowned in confusion. "Can't… feel..."

"We've been giving you laudanum. Your right leg is also broken, and then there are your other wounds."

Aramis held up his good arm, noting the bandage tied around his hand. He flinched at the memory of a nail being driven into his palm. Porthos gently pulled Aramis' arm down and wrapped his hand in both his own.

"You'll make a full recovery." Porthos stared at him so earnestly, but there seemed a certain strain beneath his voice. Aramis didn't miss the warning look Athos gave him either.

But Aramis was too tired to make anything of it. His eyes flickered closed as he felt himself being pulled under.

"That's it. Sleep, we'll be here when you wake."

 **~oOo~**

True to their word Athos and Porthos were always there when he woke. Either one or the other, sometimes both together, and occasionally d'Artagnan came to visit. Though it was a frustrating way of living, Aramis needed help with everything, from eating and drinking to simply reading a book. On that occasion Porthos could discern his unspoken one handed struggle and took to reading it to him. The doses of laudanum took the edge off his pain, but the ritualistic changing of bandages and checking of wounds was still a trial.

The time came when Athos and Porthos had their duties to attend to. There was talk of war and preparation had to be made. The two of them were needed. Still, Treville seemed as if he attempted to leave at least one of them free when he could. Those times became more scarce and too often Aramis was left alone with his thoughts.

And in those moments Aramis came to realise that Porthos was wrong. It wasn't over. It would never be over. Not for him. Anne and his child might be safe, he lived, and Rochefort was dead. But so was Marguerite. That fact weighed on him in the long, lonely hours. It ate away at his conscience, and tore his heart to pieces. Aramis welcomed the moment the laudanum began to wear off. He could feel something of the pain he deserved then. But Athos and Porthos would always return and make sure he had another dose.

Sometimes he imagined Marguerite stood at the foot of the bed. She wept. She wept for him, and he wished she wouldn't. Aramis tried to tell her she was blameless, but still the tears fell. He told her how sorry he was, and she just shook her head. Not a word was spoken. Some part of him knew she wasn't real, but he longed for absolution. And in that longing he felt ashamed. It made her death about him, and she was the one who had suffered. Aramis wouldn't be granted absolution. The dead were unconcerned with the trials of the living. He wouldn't be granted it, and he did not deserve it. Not like he deserved the burn that scorched through his arm and the rest of his wounds.

The door opened and Porthos stepped in.

"Aramis? Who are you talking to?" He looked around the man's quarters as if expecting to see a visitor.

Aramis tried to keep the tight sound of pain from his voice. "Nobody. Just praying."

Still, Porthos went straight to pour a drink laced with laudanum.

"I've brought you some food, the meat at the garrison was particularly fine today." He placed a bundle down while he helped Aramis drink.

After preparing the meal Porthos dragged a chair to Aramis' bedside. "You know, Treville has been made Minister for War. I'll give you one guess who'll be taking over as Captain."

Aramis managed a wan smile. "Athos?"

"Got it. Truth be told I don't think he really wanted it, but he's a good man for the job."

"Men who don't seek power are usually the best at wielding it." Aramis spoke thoughtfully before taking another bite.

"Though it'll be a trying time ahead. To be made Captain right as we dive into war, I don't envy him one bit."

"It's Athos, he'll do well."

"I know he will. I just worry for him is all…"

Aramis reached a hand out to brush Porthos' arm. "You worry for all of us. Too much."

"Well, get back on your feet and I'll have one less to worry about." Porthos gave him a teasing grin.

"About that… how long did the physician say? How long until I can be out of bed, and rid of this?" Aramis nodded down to his tightly bound arm.

The smile seemed to drop from Porthos' face. "It'll be a while yet, but don't you worry about it."

Aramis frowned, but didn't press the matter. "When do you ride for the border?"

"We don't know yet, preparations are still being made. Men are still being mustered. But I fear it won't be long…" Porthos looked at him sympathetically.

So he would probably not be joining his brothers then.

Aramis sighed and sank back onto his pillows. He supposed it was inevitable. Even once he healed it would take a while to get his fighting form back. But worse than being left behind was being left alone.

Aramis looked up to meet Porthos' troubled eyes and caught the sorrowful stare of Marguerite over his shoulder.

No, he was not entirely alone.

"Don't you want any more?" Porthos pushed the plate forwards.

"I'm not hungry."

 **~oOo~**

It was a few days until Athos came to visit again. Aramis didn't resent it, he supposed the man was busy with being the new Captain on the verge of war. Porthos' company was good enough, but he wouldn't give Aramis any answers. Porthos was only concerned with telling Aramis he would be fine, and ensuring he ate and drank enough. That was becoming a trial in itself. Food turned to dust in Aramis' mouth under Marguerite's pale stare. Every time he tried to swallow it down he gagged. The loss of appetite he tried to explain away by telling Porthos one of the others had brought him something. The worry never left his friend's eyes.

Athos looked a bit more worn when he took a seat by Aramis' bed. He seemed happy to get the weight off his feet judging by the sigh that escaped when he sat down. Athos wasn't like Porthos, he was content to fall into a companionable silence after their initial greetings. But Aramis wasn't going to let Athos hide in silence, not like he let Porthos hide in his well meaning platitudes.

"I hear you are to ride out soon?"

Athos gave a weary nod. "Another week and we should be on our way. We have only to wait for a contingent of Dessessart's men to return, and they are expected any day now."

"I am only sorry I won't be joining you." Aramis tried for a smile. "How long did the physician say it would be until I could resume my duties?"

"Aramis, you know how long it takes broken bones to heal." Athos spoke in that matter of fact way of his.

He did know. He also knew his broken bones were worse than most. The arm especially… The wheel was a very brutal and effective tool.

"How long, Athos?" A sudden strain crept into his voice.

Athos leaned forwards against his knees, meeting Aramis' eyes with regret. "In truth, he didn't say how long it would be until you could return to duty. He wasn't sure you would return to duty at all."

Aramis swallowed thickly. "It is that bad then?"

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this Aramis, but he was doubtful you would regain full use of the arm."

Athos reached out to Aramis' hand, but he whipped it away to wipe at his eyes.

"So I am to end my days as a useless cripple."

"You can learn to wield a sword with your left. Besides, you have other skills, your medical knowledge-"

Aramis cut Athos off, a sudden anger burning his wrenched heart. "And I need both hands to stitch a wound Athos! I need two hands, two steady hands…"

He held up his good hand and let out a shuddered breath at its slight tremble. "Take it off." Aramis nodded at the bandage.

With a soft sigh Athos unwound the wrappings. They fell away to reveal an angry red puncture wound at the centre of Aramis' palm. He stared at it for a long moment and suddenly felt a stab of shame. Stigmata. He now bore the marks of Christ. Christ who had died on the cross for the sins of mankind. How could he possibly resent his fate when Marguerite lay dead? He should have died for his sins. He should have died.

"Why did you save me?" Aramis' voice was quiet.

Athos drew his friend's hand away. "Why would we not?"

Aramis closed his eyes and turned away. Athos gently held his hand through the quiet that followed.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before Athos' soft voice broke it. "I have to go soon, would you like something to eat before I leave?"

"No, Porthos brought me something earlier."

 **~oOo~**

True to Athos' word a week later the regiment departed for the border with Spain.

Aramis was left to the care of Constance and Marguerite's ghost.

She stared sorrowfully from the corner of the room, a muted reminder of Aramis' shame. Until one day she stepped forwards and reached out to him.

"Poor Aramis. They've left you all alone again."


	5. Chapter 5

**Note** : Argh, so sorry for the delay. Naturally I was pulled in to work on the day I was hoping to update. Free time is a thing I am not allowed apparently. Plus I wanted to write and insert a little flashback of the rescue. Since it's Aramis pov I skipped over the rescue with him being out of it, but a reviewer hoped for a flashback and I felt a bit bad for not including it (so Epona, this is for you ;) )

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

 _The Rescue..._

Their entrance was a lot easier this time around. The gate had not yet been repaired and all it took was knocking a couple of guards down as they rode by.

As they charged into the yard with a clatter of hooves Porthos attention was immediately taken by the prone figure lying upon the wheel. His breath stalled in his throat. Were they too late? Please, God, let it not be too late…

"Get to Aramis! I'll handle this." Athos yelled.

There were shouts and clashes as Athos engaged a couple of men running towards them. But a red mist had descended on Porthos' vision, it blocked everything else out. He locked on to the man standing over Aramis with a club in hand, and a rush of blood saw him charge forwards. The executioner raised his crude weapon, and desperately tried to fend off Porthos' attack. It was a futile action. Porthos was enraged beyond reason, in that moment he only existed to visit death upon those who would harm his brother. The schiavona came down on the juncture between neck and shoulder, a spray of blood signalled the end.

"Aramis? Aramis!"

Porthos dropped beside his friend and clutched at his face. Aramis' head lifelessly lolled, there was no response. But a hand to the chest revealed a heartbeat still remained, and that small flutter of hope gave Porthos the first bit of relief he had felt in an age. He drew back and tried to ignore the mangled limbs. They would be able to put Aramis back together later, for now all that mattered was getting him free. Porthos swallowed heavily and reached to loose the rope around Aramis' wrists, only to find there was no rope. A nail had been driven through his palm, blood bloomed from the impaled flesh and ran in rivulets to stain the wood at his back.

And something in Porthos snapped.

He roared and surged to his feet, storming to the edge of the platform. Between one breath and the next his pistol was pointed at Rochefort.

"Porthos!"

Athos felled his last opponent and rushed to Porthos' side. He reached a hand to his friend's trembling arm.

"Don't tell me not to do it, Athos. Don't you dare tell me not to." His voice was strained through clenched teeth.

Rochefort had his hands raised, but there was no fear in his eyes. He stood as a man who had looked death in the eye before and no longer shied from it. Perhaps he simply no longer had the good sense to do so. The queen shook at his side, she backed off to press herself against the wall, but she was trapped with nowhere to go. Part of Porthos felt bad that she would have to witness this, but he was beyond being able to stop.

"You will be put to death for this, musketeer." Rochefort's words spat across the yard and Porthos' finger tightened on the trigger.

In turn Athos' fingers tightened on Porthos' shoulder. "Wait. That's all I ask."

"We don't need to." Porthos growled. "Vargas will be with the king by now."

As they assaulted the yard, Treville and d'Artagnan were rushing Vargas through the palace. Porthos could not entertain the thought they would fail.

"Let us be sure, it will be over soon. You don't need to do this."

"He _nailed_ Aramis to the wheel." Porthos felt the slight hold he had on control begin to slip…

"Would you not rather see him hang? See justice done?"

Why was Athos trying to keep him from doing this? It was what the snake deserved!

"I would rather him look me in the eye as he chokes on his own blood!" Porthos raised the pistol a little higher and the slight trembling in his arm stopped.

"Do not become the monster you fight against, my friend. But do what you must." Athos sounded defeated as his hand fell away, and for a moment Porthos felt alone.

He glanced back towards Aramis.

He nearly was alone, he might still end up alone. If Aramis did not survive…

He turned back and squeezed the trigger.

The queen screamed. The pistol dropped. As Athos went to her, Porthos went to Aramis.

He felt hollow, he felt dead inside, as he gripped the nail and pulled it slowly, too slowly, from his friend's flesh. Porthos held it up, scowled and then threw it to one side with some disgust. And then he moved on to the next one. He was glad Aramis was unaware for this. Although Porthos would have given anything to see Aramis' eyes open, he did not want his friend to suffer the pain he was having to inflict. Moving Aramis would be agony. Porthos prayed he remained senseless as he bent to gather his damaged limbs and take him away from this godforsaken place...

 **~oOo~**

 _Now..._

Constance tried to keep a smile on her face for Aramis' sake. But he could tell she was worried about d'Artagnan. They were a distraction for each other when moments of melancholy threatened. Still, having Constance visit was bittersweet. She brought news of Anne and the Dauphin. At first Aramis would eagerly ask after them as soon as she was through the door. But the ache of his wounds and the cold stare of Marguerite reminded him that he should have left them alone. In time he stopped asking after them, and Constance learned to stop talking about them. The torn look in his eyes probably gave it away. Though it gave Aramis joy to hear of his love and his son, it was a joy he would have to deny himself. It was a joy he did not deserve.

Eventually concern began to show in Constance eyes at the way Aramis never finished his plate, and made excuses as to why he wouldn't eat. She tried to press him a time or two, but when he began to retch she backed off. Food turned his stomach now, even though his body cried out for it he couldn't seem to force it down. He tried to manage what he could to keep Constance happy. But it had been a long time since he had seen her smile.

Marguerite stood at the foot of his bed. He had preferred her silent, sorrowful stare to the occasional words she now whispered.

If she had been angry or resentful Aramis would have welcomed it. But she plaintively called his name and cried that she was sorry. No matter how much Aramis remonstrated with her those words never changed. As hunger and weakness stalked his body the part of Aramis that knew she wasn't really there had started to fade. He had begun to exchange words with Marguerite as easily as he did with Constance.

"They've left you." Her words were faint as if they struggled to make the distance from beyond the grave.

"They'll come back." He tried to sound strong.

"They won't."

"I have to believe…" His eyes brimmed with tears as she found the chinks in his armour.

"You're not there to protect them. They need you."

Aramis smiled bitterly. "They don't need me."

"They need you, just as you need them. You're fading alone... you'll join me soon. I'm sorry."

" _I'm_ sorry. I didn't want this. I didn't mean to do this to you."

"Poor Aramis, you're already dead inside. How else do you think I see you and speak to you? I wanted us to live together, but we can rest in peace together instead."

"I will not rest in peace. There is no peace to be had where I am going." Aramis' voice suddenly sounded as hollow as he felt.

They were interrupted by the door slamming open and an excited Constance rushing in holding a piece of parchment aloft.

"A letter from d'Artagnan!"

Aramis managed a faint smile as she pulled a chair up. "Are they well?"

"Yes, yes they're all fine." She smiled at her husband's words as only those in love could smile. "He complains about the rations, but their battles have been going well so far. Minimal loss of life and some ground gained… oh and Porthos sends word that you should look after yourself."

"Of course he does." Aramis spoke lightly.

Constance sat back with a sigh of relief. "I am so pleased to hear from them. I've been that worried."

Aramis reached a hand out to Constance. She took it gently. "I know what it is to be in the midst of battle. You rely on your brothers. You know they will look out for you as you look out for them. Have hope, they will be fine."

Marguerite's ghost watched from the corner. "You believe hope to be a beautiful thing Aramis? It is cruel. Hope will not give her comfort when d'Artagnan's body is brought home. Hope led me astray when I first looked to you with affection."

She had hoped for love and received only deception.

He suddenly felt sick.

Aramis swallowed heavily. "Constance, I'm sorry, I'm feeling quite tired, would you mind?" He shot his eyes to the door.

"Oh, of course. I'll be back later with something to eat - and you will eat it. You're not looking at all well. In fact, I'm sure you're getting worse, not better. I can call for a physician if-"

"No, I'm fine. Rest will do me the world of good."

She looked at him doubtfully, but got to her feet nevertheless. "You can't carry on like this, Aramis."

"I don't know what you mean…"

"Not eating, not taking the tinctures for your pain. Don't you want to get better?"

He wanted to suffer as he deserved to suffer. His eyes closed as his sluggish mind sought an answer.

"If you don't want to get better, then at least do it for your friends. They would see you well again."

There was a short silence before the sound of the door closing echoed around the room.

Though his eyes were closed Aramis could still feel that cold stare from the corner.

"It does not matter. They will not live to see you again."

Aramis wasn't sure if the words came from Marguerite or within himself. Perhaps they were one and the same thing.

 **~oOo~**

Aramis was roused by a hand sweeping across his forehead and a faraway voice urging him to wake. His eyelids felt heavy and a fierce ache burned through his wounded limbs.

He finally managed to open his eyes to find Constance pushing a plate towards him on the bed. He weakly pushed it away again.

"Oh Aramis, please eat something, you're weak as a kitten."

As if to defy her words he tried to push the plate away a little more forcefully. Constance just managed to catch it before it fell from the bed.

"Stop acting like a child. Eat."

"Can't…" Aramis dredged the word from his throat as if it were a mire.

"You can and you will."

"No…"

"I have to go, but when I get back I want to see that plate clear."

The door slammed shut, but another cold hand caressed his forehead.

"Sorry…" Aramis whispered faintly.

"No words of regret or sorrow can wipe your sins from the world. You know this. You know it as well as you know I am not here. You know there is only one thing to do - to suffer. To suffer as He suffered. And then to finally pass from this world in grace."

Aramis' fingers reached for the knife left out on the plate. His tightly bound arm had been placed in a looser sling. His hand was free, though his fingers could do little more than painfully twitch. Aramis rested the point of the blade against his useless palm. Taking in a deep breath it dug it into the healed over wound, drawing fresh blood.

"Have you seven last words for me, Aramis?"

"Just three."

He feebly managed to hold the knife against his other palm with shaking fingers and gave it a push. He hardly had the energy to flinch at the pain of it. Or perhaps he was just becoming used to pain now. He was made to suffer.

"I am sorry."

 **~oOo~**

"Aramis!" A harsh voice ripped through the peaceful nothingness.

"Wake up soldier!" Those words were accompanied by a strike to the face.

Aramis' eyes slid open to find Treville looming over him while Constance hovered in the background.

"Maybe I should write to them? I think it would help if they were here…"

"They won't come. They _can't_ come, especially not Athos. He has a regiment to command for God's sake." Treville shook him harshly. "Aramis, what have you done to yourself?"

Aramis vaguely felt that his hands were bandaged once again. Red streaked sheets caught his eye in the corner of the room. The thought flit through his head that Marguerite usually stood there.

"C'ptn?" Aramis' tongue felt too heavy in his head. But his garbled speech was understood.

"Not any more. That's Athos."

Aramis' eyes rolled as he tried to focus. "Sorry…"

"Don't be sorry." Treville let go and sat back. "What is the matter with you? I know you have been through much of late, but the Aramis I know wouldn't roll over and die. He would fight."

"What for?" He spoke faintly. The world finally righted itself around him.

"For his brothers, for his honour and duty."

"My brothers are gone, I have no honour, and no duty either… Not with this." He managed to lift his shattered arm a couple of inches and scowl at it distastefully.

"You know better than to write them off so easily. You should not write yourself off either. Duty is not done with you, even if you are done with it. There are many places for you in the regiment yet."

And what of honour? Aramis robbed himself of that when he first set eyes on Marguerite. But he would not speak of that with Treville.

"What would you have me do? Sit to the side and shout instructions to raw recruits? What else? Make dinner? Feed the horses? I was born to fight, it's the only way I know I'm truly alive. I'll be left to linger at the garrison while everyone else is seeing action - I might as well be dead!"

And that was what he deserved. Wasn't it?

Treville suddenly lunged forwards to grab a fistful of his shirt. "I am waging war. Good men _are_ dying. They are laying down their lives in service to their King and country. Not wasting away through their own damned self pity! I came here in deference to the man who faithfully served under me for countless years without a thought for himself. I am sparing time from my own duty for this - I do not have time to coddle you, nor would the Aramis I know want to be coddled. So pull yourself together man! Where is the Aramis who recklessly dived on a bomb? The one who defied everyone to save a child? Tell me, where is the Aramis who was thrown out of a window only to climb back up and save the life of the Queen and the Dauphin?"

Aramis closed his eyes. "He is gone."

"I know he's not." Treville let go and straightened, making to leave. "Look and you will find him again."

Aramis turned his head away and let out a shuddered breath.

"We need you Aramis. I'm losing enough good men at the hands of the enemy. I don't need them fading away in bed. When next we meet I expect to find you on the mend. Keep fighting, Aramis." Treville put his hat back on and turned to leave. "Good day, Constance. Look after him and send word if you need me."

When the sound of the door closing reached Aramis he turned an accusing glare on Constance. "Why did you tell him?"

"Because I didn't know what else to do." Her eyes were shining. "You won't listen to me, you're getting worse, and I feel like I'm sitting here watching you die."

He sighed softly. "Maybe you should let me."

She put a hand to her mouth, as if holding something in, and turned to go.

 **~oOo~**

Days passed. Aramis didn't bother counting them. They were broken up by periods of sleep, for there was little else to do, and exhaustion such as he had never felt before dragged him down. His lips became cracked as he drank less and less. Eventually Constance took to cradling his head and putting the cup to his lips herself. Sometimes she shouted at him. Sometimes she cried. But Aramis was past caring. Not even Treville's sharp voice mattered any more.

He was looking for that mist again. The place where he was nothing and he remembered nobody. If he could just return there he would find peace. Perhaps he would forget what he had done. Aramis knew he did not deserve peace. But he might at least forget he did not deserve it.

She was always there to remind him though. Marguerite. She would never blame him, but her mere presence was blame enough. The only words that passed his lips were for her.

"Forgive me…"

She shook her head.

Aramis knew it was not because she did not want to forgive him. It was because she thought there was nothing to forgive. At the trial she had clutched at him, she called his name, so sorry for what she had done, and then she took her own life. Marguerite thought she had betrayed Aramis, when the truth was that Aramis had betrayed her with their every moment together. The first time he had looked at her Aramis only had eyes for his son.

And Athos' words came to haunt him.

 _The dauphin is not your son, Aramis. He can never be your son._

He should have kept his distance. He should have cut ties with the Queen and his child both. But Aramis let his heart rule his head. He felt a father's love that could not be ignored, but while he could not ignore it he could not indulge it. Aramis could not walk into that room and pick up his child, he could not cradle his son and kiss the soft skin of the babe's forehead. He could never be a father, though he was one. And so he was trapped in between, stranded in a sort of purgatory, watching from afar and being granted the slightest of touches of the life he desired. Those small moments came with a cost, a terrible one. For the attention he gave to his son was meant for Marguerite. Aramis recklessly entangled himself with her heart, and hearts are fragile things. He took no care of it. He was cruel. And in trying to unravel the snarl Aramis managed to choke her.

"Don't cry. I have wept enough for us both." Her voice came from somewhere, within or without he couldn't tell.

Aramis shuddered in a breath. "You shouldn't have to cry at all. I did this."

"Just sleep, you'll be with me soon."

But he was asleep already wasn't he? Asleep but not yet dead. There was a weight to death. Aramis held men as they died. They seemed to become heavier as they stopped supporting their own weight entirely. Even in sleep or unconscious the heart still beats and lungs still draw breath. When they cease everything is dragged down.

Aramis had felt the weight of death in his arms. He knew it when it began to seep into his own limbs. A numbness took the place of raging fire. He had almost forgotten how much his wounds hurt. Aramis had become so used to the pain it seemed normal. With it gone he felt such relief. Had God reached down to grant him mercy in his last moments?

Tendrils of mist began to creep around Aramis as he drifted. Wearily he reached out for them but they disappeared between his fingers. Before long he couldn't feel his fingers. He was dying, and he was dying alone. Every man died alone in the end. No matter if you were in bed surrounded by loved ones, or on the battlefield surrounded by dying friends, each man passed alone into the abyss.

Aramis stood on the threshold, preparing to let go. There was no fear, no pain, only relief.

But something held him back.

Beyond the frail limits of his own body there was silence. It was something more than the silence that surrounds the dying. It was a sort of comfortable well worn silence, and Aramis knew it.

It filled the spaces in their tavern corner when Porthos and d'Artagnan had gone home.

It lay between them late at night when meals had been eaten, the fire was blazing and all was well.

It settled in this very room when Athos watched over him.

 _Athos_.

He had to know. He had to find out. Aramis put what little energy he had into opening his eyes. They cracked open a sliver and he was there. Aramis blinked, and Athos was still there. The man looked older, he seemed worn and wore an expression of misery.

It took a moment for Athos to realise Aramis was watching him. He seemed to be fixedly staring at the most fascinating of nothing. When he did realise he did not smile, his expression did not change. Athos remained devastated.

And then he seemed to slightly flinch and come back to himself. Athos leaned forwards to reach for a cup.

"Drink something… For pity's sake, drink."

He sounded hollow.

Resigned to dying Aramis was stunned by this sudden revelation. Why was Athos here? Athos _couldn't_ be here. He was fighting a war miles away. This wasn't real… but the cold taste of water felt real, and the touch of his friend's hand was just as he remembered it.

Suddenly Aramis realised what he was doing, and weakly pushed the cup away. It was his time, he was going to pass from this world and Athos being here made no difference.

"Drink." Athos insisted.

"Let me go…" Aramis' voice was so faint it hardly sounded like it belonged to him.

"I can't." There was a distinct crack in Athos' voice with those two words.

"Please… I should have died on the wheel… should have died at Chatillon… at Savoy. I've been here longer than I deserve. Let me go…"

Athos' hand turned into a fist. "Don't ask me to."

"I'm ready."

"I'm not." He clutched at Aramis' arm so tightly. "Don't do this to yourself. Choose to live."

"It's not a choice." Aramis swallowed thickly. "I _deserve_ this… You should not have saved me, you should not have come back."

At that Athos sat up, a look of pain passed his face. "I did not come back for you."

Aramis frowned.

"I came back for Porthos."

"What do you mean?"

Athos seemed to crumple. "I had to bring him home."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Aramis shook his head, refusing to believe what Athos was refusing to say. "No, no… he isn't, he can't be…"

Athos' jaw clenched as if he were trying to hold something in, but his eyes betrayed him in the way they glazed over with unshed tears.

"You came back to tell me Porthos is dead?" Aramis' voice thickened with grief.

"I came back to bring him home to rest. I couldn't leave him out there in the middle of some godforsaken field. He doesn't belong there, he should be here, with us."

"He should be here with us, _alive_ and _breathing_. How…" Aramis broke to swallow down his tears. "How did it happen?"

"There was a battle…" Athos paused to wipe at his eyes and shudder in a breath. "I made a mistake. I should have withdrawn."

"Athos…"

"There were too many of them. I should have withdrawn." Athos repeated those words again and looked away from Aramis to stare at the wall, seemingly too ashamed to meet his friend's gaze. "By the time I gave the order it was too late. He was shot…" Athos' hand ghosted over his neck, as if tracing Porthos' wound. "There was so much blood. He couldn't speak through it, I never knew his last words. I… I should have withdrawn."

Athos put a hand to his mouth while his eyes shone. Eventually he swallowed heavily and managed to continue. "I held him... after the fighting was over. There was nothing to be done, but I couldn't let go. He was already gone. Still, I held on, feeling him cool. Some part of me thought that if I sat there long enough he would open his eyes and draw breath again. I could have been there forever, waiting."

For a moment Athos looked down at his lap, he seemed confused, as if he could still feel the weight of Porthos against him. "Somebody tried to convince me he was wasn't coming back. I can't remember who, I just remember a distant voice telling me to let go. The more insistent they became the harder I held on. I just wanted him to be alive again, to be warm again. If I just held him close enough, tight enough, he might have woken. They pulled us apart in the end."

Athos and Aramis passed the next few moments with silent tears. The silence between the two of them had always been comfortable, but the silence in wake of death was anything but a comfort. _Porthos was gone_. The part of Aramis that wanted to escape to that peaceful mist ridden void screamed out. He didn't want to be here, he didn't want to live through this. How could he possibly live through this? All of the pain he had ever known was eclipsed by the pain of this moment. If he passed, he wouldn't feel it, he would be nothing, and nothing would matter. The dead didn't know they were dead, only those left behind suffered the pain.

Aramis closed his eyes.

"Don't leave me." Athos gripped his hand and sounded suddenly desperate, such as Aramis had never heard him before. "Don't leave me here alone."

Just as Porthos had left him to endure this pain, Aramis would leave and condemn Athos to suffer alone. Could he do that? Could he be so cruel? He could struggle through this pain along with Athos, or he could give up, abandon the pain and abandon Athos. No doubt his friend would follow soon after. Athos had never dealt with misery well.

"I'm here."

Aramis opened his eyes to find Athos staring at him with such a pleading expression. The urge to relinquish life that pulled so incessantly at him suddenly fell away. If Aramis could not live for himself he would live for Athos.

"I'm not leaving."

He watched something of relief wash over Athos, but the sorrow remained. It would be a long time before that ebbed away.

"Then get better." Athos sat up and tentatively offered a cup of water.

This time Aramis took a drink freely, the cold water did not soothe his throat. Every part of him felt raw and stripped with grief.

Athos seemed to collapse in on himself before uttering his next words with a small voice. "Do you blame me?"

Blame. Fault. Guilt. Aramis had been intimate with it all of late. Many a battle turned tide on the word of one man, but war was a complicated business. Much like love it tangled, snared and snarled all those involved. Athos might have turned the tide, or he might have had as much effect as a grain of sand upon the beach. Aramis found he couldn't blame Athos, but Athos would hold himself responsible all the same.

"No, I don't." Aramis answered faintly.

They were both trapped and trammelled by love and war. The two were so different and yet so alike. Love and war were both so easy to begin and yet so difficult to stop. Still, the contrasts fought in Aramis' heart and had done for a long time. As a soldier he had always been more for love than war, and yet the lover in him had made war by setting his affections on the queen. Perhaps they were two sides of the same coin, and both were forces of destruction.

"But if I had withdrawn, perhaps…"

"You can't know that." Aramis spoke thickly. "What is done is done. We just have to live with the consequences."

"As you have been doing so admirably?" Athos spoke with a hint of bitterness.

His words were turned upon him. Aramis had not been living with the consequences of his actions, he had been trying to die because of them. But he couldn't help but notice there were no more ghosts in the room. The burden of guilt would always be his, but perhaps he could learn to live with it.

Athos ran a weary hand over his face. "I got him killed. Porthos wouldn't have been there if I'd withdrawn earlier. I didn't realise there would be so many. They were concealed by the trees. We should never have attacked in the first place."

Now Aramis was watching Athos being crushed beneath his own guilt. Aramis had made the choice to live. He would have to to see his friend through this.

"I sent him to die. I sent so many men to die…"

"You were doing your duty. You know the cost of war is paid in lives."

"Not _his_ life." Athos' hand clenched into a fist.

"And do you believe Porthos would have been happy to stay behind? We are soldiers, we follow our captain to the end. If you ordered me out there I would have gone."

"And if you died I could not bear it. Porthos is gone, I cannot…" Athos' voice cut off, choked by the threat of a sob.

Aramis reached a weak hand out to Athos' own. "I know."

He felt like his own heart had been rent in two.

Athos stared down at their hands, swallowed heavily and started again. "Well, I'm not your captain now. I told Treville… The weight of the dead is more than I can bear."

"It was just your misfortune to take the reins on the brink of war. It makes corpses of us all in some way or another. You have it in you to be a good leader, I know you do."

Athos' face fell. "Good leaders don't send their men into the jaws of a wolf."

"When the wolf masquerades as a lamb it cannot be helped."

Aramis' weak body was trying to pull him away to sleep. He fought it, but his flickering eyelids gave him away.

"Forgive me, you need to rest." Athos pulled his hand away and made to leave.

"No, wait… Where is d'Artagnan? Is he with Constance?"

"He's still out there fighting. I came back with Porthos and a few other men too injured to fight." Athos sighed and looked away. "I may have got him killed too by now. He went wild when Porthos was hit. I had to drag him away. His blood was running too hot... the boy fought as if killing every Spaniard in Spain would bring Porthos back."

The remains of Aramis' heart lurched. "Did you ask him to return with you?"

"He refused. He said he wasn't a coward." Athos' eyes dropped to the floor.

Aramis caught the implication.

"You're _not_ a coward."

Athos was quiet for a moment, before swiping a hand across his forehead and donning his hat. "I should go."

Aramis opened his mouth to object, but Athos raised his palm and bid Aramis sleep.

The door closed and Aramis was left alone. Entirely alone. As lonely as Porthos surely was. No… no, Porthos was with God. He was at peace. Still, Aramis could not find it in his heart to be glad about that fact. 'Peace' was not a word that came to mind when you thought of Porthos. For the man to be quiet and still was most unnatural. He was quiet and still now, sleeping eternally, wherever he was. Aramis was suddenly distraught at the thought of Porthos lying alone, cold and silent. He shouldn't be alone. He was seized with the need to see his friend, but his own body would fail him if he tried to rise, broken as it was. Aramis tried to remind himself that Porthos wasn't really alone. He wasn't there. It was just a body. Just the remains left behind. Aramis' own body begged him to sleep, but his flayed, raw soul wouldn't let him. So Aramis passed the night with tears and prayers, some silent and whispered, others howled and desperate. Eventually sheer exhaustion won over grief and he was granted sleep, though it was anything but peaceful.

 **~oOo~**

The next morning Constance brought Aramis something to eat, along with the news that Porthos was to be buried later that day. She looked hollow and ill, no doubt fraught with worry over d'Artagnan. Aramis longed to offer some words of comfort, but he was lost in his own misery. Sorrow seemed to smother him. Each breath was heavy with the threat of tears, and while he wanted to eat, the food on his plate had to be forced down.

Constance left for a time, but returned to help Aramis dress and prepare for the burial. The hardest part was just sitting up. It was the first step to the final goodbye. Aramis' head spun at being upright, some harsh breaths settled it, but he still felt strangely adrift. Constance wordlessly helped him out of his shirt, working carefully around his arm. Aramis watched in a detached manner, as if it were all happening to somebody else. His wounds were mostly healed, but the scars pulled and ached with tight skin and disused muscle beneath. It felt distant and muted. His leg and arm, still bound, seemed to pulse in time with his heart. He supposed he must still be alive then, if his heart were beating. He didn't feel alive though. He felt like a ghost, just watching.

Aramis shivered as Constance wiped a damp cloth across his skin. She uttered a quiet apology. Aramis couldn't find his voice to tell her it was all right. It was all right, the water was just cold, but nothing else about this was all right. In any other situation where a woman was washing him down, it would be a prelude to something else. The cloth would linger about his throat tantalisingly while fingers brushed his jaw and teased his lips. And then it would gently slip to more intimate areas before being cast aside entirely. Now the cloth was gentle but clinical, as if it washed an invalid, which Aramis supposed he was. He was too weak and useless to wash himself. It wasn't all right.

He was getting ready to bury Porthos.

It was not all right.

Aramis wondered if somebody had washed Porthos as Constance washed him… _There was so much blood_ … had somebody wiped it all away? Just as the wet cloth traced Aramis' scars, had Porthos' unhealed wounds been tended? Would he seem asleep rather than slaughtered?

He blinked heavily and realised Constance was trying to guide his arms into a fresh shirt. Aramis tried to help as he came back to himself. She looked similarly adrift, and was quiet in a way she had never been before. They were both here together, but so far apart. Aramis was lost in grief, and Constance's thoughts were miles away in Spain. Just these actions joined them, the soft touch of skin against skin, not warm and comforting but absent.

When she was done and Aramis was fit to face the world, something of Constance came back. She sat by him on the bed and took his hand. Their fingers entwined. Aramis remained staring straight ahead, but he gave her hand a squeeze in silent acknowledgement. They sat like that for some time, eventually Constance came to rest her head against Aramis' shoulder. A warmth passed between them. Finally they were both here, in this moment, sharing what comfort they could.

A loud knock at the door disturbed their fragile peace.

"Are you ready?" Constance asked with a soft voice.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

He wasn't ready. He would never be ready for this.

But still Aramis hobbled his way to the cart that waited outside. Constance took his arm to help, and she did not let go, keeping their hands entwined the entire journey. Aramis breathed hard. Just that short walk was a trial, but grief was also robbing the air from his lungs, and he had not been outside for some time.

People walked the streets around Aramis without a care. They didn't know the world was collapsing, as it was for him. They walked on untouched. Even the sun was shining. The sky would not spare a tear for Porthos. Aramis caught the eyes of those that looked at him, he stared until they looked away, uncomfortable at the weight of his gaze. But he was just trying to discern how they could smile on a day such as this, when he felt like he stood on the edge of a precipice. Aramis felt he was just a breath or two from having it crumble away beneath his feet. He would fall and break down, inconsolable. These people didn't know, they didn't feel it. They had their own lives, their own families and friends, their own worries and ambitions.

That man with the blue feather in his hat was probably just going to the market. Maybe he would buy some food for his family, perhaps even a carved wooden toy for a young son or daughter. When he looked at Aramis he just saw a gaunt man in a cart. He didn't know Porthos was gone. He didn't know who Porthos was, nor could he imagine the depth of the grief that threatened to choke Aramis. The man with the blue feather in his hat passed his eyes over Aramis, and then he would forget and carry on with his life. Aramis was left with the burden. He longed to swap lives for just a moment to feel the relief. But he would have to forget Porthos too, and all they meant to each other. He would die before letting that go. The man with the blue feather was left behind as he stopped to talk to a friend. In that moment Aramis was forgotten and let go, and in turn Aramis left him to his own story.

Everyone they passed had their own stories that Aramis would never know. Just as he passed by in the background of their lives. He would-

"Aramis?"

He was so lost in his thoughts he hadn't noticed the tug at his arm.

"Aramis? We're here, are you with me?"

He rubbed at his eyes and gave a slight nod.

And just as Constance relinquished her unwavering hold, Athos was suddenly there offering a hand to help him down.

Aramis limped towards the graveyard, holding on to Athos. He grit his teeth against the pain of using long unused legs, but he was determined to walk under his own power. Still, Athos ended up near enough carrying him. Silently he pulled Aramis' good arm across his shoulders and put his own around Aramis' waist. In that way they slowly made it to the side of Porthos' grave. Constance followed close behind and stood at Aramis' other side. There were not many more people present to put Porthos to rest. Most of their regiment were away fighting, Treville was there of course, and Flea sidled up to stand opposite on the other side of the grave. They gave her a respectful nod of acknowledgement and took off their hats as Treville stepped forward to speak.

Their former Captain started by recounting his first meeting with Porthos, and how the boy from the Court of Miracles came to join the regiment. It brought to mind the moment Aramis first met his friend. Treville had introduced a few new recruits and asked him to teach them a little shooting. Porthos showed promise, but he was nothing special. However in hand to hand it was another story. Aramis watched as Porthos' opponents hit the ground again and again. He also watched the others give him a cold shoulder. Porthos was different, and it seemed they wouldn't let him forget it. Aramis defiantly extended the hand of friendship, it was a good day when Porthos took it.

Savoy happened soon after that, and Aramis relied on Porthos to get him through. He often thought a new found friend shouldn't have to bear such a burden. But Porthos insisted he was no trouble. Porthos was always there when the nights were too long and the darkness too deep. He never left. But he was leaving now, mercilessly torn away by the hand of God.

"Are you all right?" Athos' voice whispered at his ear.

Suddenly Aramis came back to himself. He realised Treville was still talking, and Porthos was already in the ground. He had missed the final goodbye to his friend, he had…

"Aramis?"

Aramis found he was clutching at Athos' arm tightly enough to bruise.

He wasn't all right. He was never going to be all right. How could he answer that question? Aramis opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"Do you need to leave?"

"No." He managed.

He wasn't going to leave. Not yet.

Aramis' eyes fixed on the open grave as they began to fill it in.

Treville had finished speaking, he came over to say something to Aramis as people drifted away.

How could it be over already? He hadn't said a word for his friend, not even a single prayer. Aramis felt as if he were stood still, frozen in time, while the world spun on around him. Treville's words were lost to the ether. He should say something. He should-

"We should go." There was a waver to Athos' voice.

Still, Aramis stood, frozen. The air seemed to catch in his throat.

"Aramis? You need to sit down, you're shaking."

And yet he felt as fixed as marble. Athos was the one shaking, his voice trembled, he seemed ready to crack and break down. The stoic facade of the soldier had been worn for the others, but now they were alone Aramis could see it falling away bit by bit.

Aramis' leg was screaming at him by now. He tried to ignore it, but the point came when it simply gave up and buckled beneath him. Athos held his weight and they slid to the ground together. There they sat in the dirt, holding on and falling apart.

Eventually Athos cleared his throat. "Aramis, it's time…"

Aramis shook his head.

"We can't stay here forever."

"I didn't say anything." Aramis managed through hitched breaths. "I should have said something, he needs to know…"

Athos gripped his shoulder tightly. "He knows, Aramis. He knows."

 **~oOo~**

The days and weeks that followed after were marked by Porthos' absence. There was hole in the world where he ought to be. But Aramis' recovery provided something of a distraction for himself and Athos. The main difficulty was learning to walk again. He felt like a shaky newborn foal the first time he was on his feet without a crutch or Athos' arm to hold on to. It was up to Athos to cajole him into taking a few steps across the courtyard. When Aramis faltered, Athos was there to steady him.

Still, no matter how occupied they were, grief was a constant shadow that crept at their backs. It passed from a pain that mauled the heart to a constant ache that flared when your guard was down. Aramis would forget himself and turn to speak to Porthos, only to find that his friend wasn't there. He found himself laughing at something Porthos would have said, and then grieving that he was no longer there to say it. It was those small moments that hurt the most. The moments when the most nonchalant of old habits became a searing reminder of Porthos' loss.

They raised a glass in mock celebration when Aramis made it all the way across the courtyard unaided. Their faces fell at the realisation only two cups clinked when there should have been three.

Aramis had kept his arm in a sling all this time. He knew it wasn't as it once was. It ached and did not move as it should. In truth he was a little afraid to try it out and see how badly he was crippled. Keeping his arm in a sling and not knowing was easier. Athos had tried getting him to use it, pointing out that if he never did it would never get better. He wasn't sure it ever would get better.

But one day while he was alone in the courtyard Aramis' eyes settled on the targets set up ready for practice. He began to wonder… Should he try? Or should he remain sitting there, not knowing? Aramis swore under his breath. Why was he being so hesitant and fearful? This wasn't him, Porthos would urge him to do it. Porthos would probably put money on him hitting the dead centre.

With that thought Aramis tentatively removed the sling and stretched his arm out as best he could. He limped away to fetch a pistol from the armoury and slowly returned to the bench. Aramis set it down on the table with an audible thunk. The pistol was something he previously wore, cleaned, and wielded without thought. Now it seemed a Herculean task lay before him.

Aramis took a deep breath, swallowed down his fear, and picked the pistol up. He tried to go about loading it as he used to, but his fingers fumbled over actions that once happened smoothly by rote. Frustration drew a growl deep from Aramis' throat. He felt clumsy. One hand did as it should but the other was slow and stiff. _It shouldn't take this long to load a pistol!_ Aramis wiped at his eyes, he felt so foolish, this wasn't something to weep over. Porthos would surely be telling him to pull himself together right about now.

Eventually Aramis had a pistol ready to fire. He limped to the row of targets, and took another deep breath to steady himself. It was all in the breathing… in… out… in… out… a steady, regular, rhythm. He raised his arm and held out the pistol, sighting down its length. It all felt so familiar that Aramis began to wonder what he had been worrying about. The pistol felt a little heavier in his hand than he was used to, but it was all coming back to him. This was his weapon, and it felt like an old friend.

When he was ready to take the shot Aramis held his breath and squeezed the trigger. A minute tremble ran down his arm and sent his shot off to the right. Aramis swore and instinctively turned to the bench, ready with a word or two for Porthos. His heart clenched at realising his friend was no longer there. Something cloyed in Aramis' throat as he looked down to painstakingly reload the pistol. This time he was hampered by a slight tremble as well, but he got the job done. He raised the weapon with determination, trying to ignore the tremor that seemed to have settled in. His shot missed the target entirely and took a bite out of the wall.

Aramis didn't swear this time. A cold feeling settled in his stomach and it became even harder to breathe. He struggled to reload through the blur of threatened tears. But again he raised the pistol with a determination fed more by frustration, anger and bitterness than anything good. Aramis missed again and immediately set to reloading.

The weight of the pistol was too much now, his arm was shaking visibly. Aramis stepped forwards to reduce the distance and he felt ashamed at doing so. He would have been hard pressed to shoot this badly even if he was trying to before. Aramis had tied his worth into this weapon. If he couldn't shoot he was useless. And Porthos had such faith in him...

" _You know people say I'm quite good with these."_

" _Good? He's the best. He's so modest."_

He was letting Porthos down.

He missed.

Aramis frantically loaded the last shot he had. It was a struggle to breathe, the target blurred in front of him and his arm screamed for him to drop the pistol. The sudden thought flit through his head that it might be better just to turn the pistol on himself. He grit his teeth and closed his eyes.

And then there was a gentle hand at his shoulder.

"Aramis, give it to me."

"I can't, I have to… I _can't_ miss again."

"This isn't helping." The hand tightened. "Let me have it."

Aramis' finger braced as if he were about to pull the trigger.

"Please..." Athos quietly begged.

And his finger relaxed. His arm dropped. The ache eased and Aramis could have cried in relief.

Athos carefully pulled the pistol from his rigid grip. "It's all right."

"No it's not."

"It will be."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

 _Hiraeth - (n) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return  
the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief  
for the lost places of your past  
_

Time passed slowly in wine soaked tavern corners, just as it slipped through unanswered prayers. Athos' comfort came from a bottle, while Aramis sought solace in every house of God Paris had to offer. Neither closed the gaping hole in the world they suffered each day. The two would come together to train and do whatever tasks were needed to be done at the garrison. But training for Aramis was a frustrating and disheartening affair. His steps were still halting and he couldn't move fast enough to wield a blade. His arm made the wielding even more awkward. The right was more or less useless, Aramis still held it in a sling when not attempting to use it. At Athos' insistence he tried to fight with his left. It felt wrong and unnatural, as if he were trying to swim against a strong current and doing nothing more than staying in place at best. Perhaps in time, with practice, he would gain some adequacy. But Aramis found his previous joy in violence evaporating the more he spent time in churches.

In the garrison Aramis was struggling and fighting to be half the man he was before. It drained him, and left him low. But with God there was no struggle. Aramis was no broken and useless thing when he stepped across the threshold of a church. He was welcomed with open arms, and accepted just as he was. Perhaps that waning drive to thrust a blade into another man's flesh led him to falter in his training. Athos was so encouraging, but in his heart of hearts Aramis knew he had lost the taste for it. The closer he drew to God, the further he drifted from his old life. And the more he recalled a vow made in desperation… _God, if you spare her and by some miracle, I'm allowed to live, I vow to devote all my remaining days to your grace. I will renounce all worldly temptations. Even my duty_ … There was another life calling to him. One where his hands would be clasped in prayer rather than around the hilt of a sword.

Since Porthos passed Aramis couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that he wanted to go home, but he no longer had a home. The garrison and the streets of Paris were familiar, he knew them, but they did not make him feel welcome or at ease. It was like wandering with an old lover when the love had long died. You could hope to kindle that flickering spark, but in the end you were trying to be something you were not. The memory of warmth lingered, and oh how you longed for it, but the world was cold. There was no going back.

Aramis couldn't go back, but he couldn't go on. He would not leave Athos alone in the world. Sometimes he thought their training sessions were the only thing keeping Athos from drinking himself into an early grave. While they were crossing swords Athos seemed blissfully free. For a moment he was allowed to let go of the grief and the guilt amidst the sweat and exertion. A time or two he even smiled. Usually when Aramis' sword went flying, or he ended up with it helplessly tangled between his own legs. Athos would smile, and encourage him to try again. So while it brought him no joy, Aramis continued for Athos' sake.

When they were done for the day Aramis would watch the weight of the world burden Athos' shoulders again. Aside from the guilt and the grief, he worried for d'Artagnan. Athos never spoke about the boy, but Aramis could tell. In fact he never spoke much of the war at all. Treville had done Athos a kindness in letting him stay and run the garrison. Another commander might have sent him straight back out as soon as Porthos was buried - or even before. This was war, and every able bodied man was needed out there. Athos might have been able bodied, but he was less so in mind. Treville occasionally brought news of the campaign, but he said nothing of d'Artagnan and Athos didn't ask. At the garrison, while they were training, there might as well not have been a war. They were in their own little world, but to Aramis it felt feigned and false. The safety of this space was breached on the occasion by carts returning, bearing the injured and the dead. Athos would run to them and frantically check the pained and vacant faces within. Aramis knew he was searching for d'Artagnan.

Aramis prayed each day they would never find him.

 **~oOo~**

"I should have come sooner. I wanted to say something, but now it comes to it, I'm not sure what to say…"

After his morning prayers Aramis had taken to wandering the streets, unconsciously delaying returning to the garrison and his training. Instead he found himself at a familiar graveyard, and between one breath and the next he was on his knees before Porthos' headstone.

"Athos said you knew. Whatever it was I wanted to say, I had no need to say it. I hope that's true. I hope you can look down from Heaven and see what lies in our hearts. If you can you'll know how much we love you and miss you." Aramis let out a long sigh and drew the back of his hand across his eyes. "You'll be able to see the rest of it too. Athos' guilt, my…"

Aramis faltered and looked away for a moment, following the lines of graves with his eyes, wondering what other confessions had passed between the living and the dead.

"I can't keep doing this Porthos. I do it for him, and I will do it for as long as I need to, but some part of me feels like it can't carry on. I don't belong here anymore… I keep searching for the place I called home, but I can't find it, and every day that passes wears me down a little more. I suppose I've come to realise now - home isn't a place, it's people, and I was robbed of my home the day you were taken. We've tried, Athos and I… God how we've tried, but it's not enough. For a few moments we might find something of what we used to be, but it's not real, it turns to ash in our hands."

Aramis broke off to give a hollow laugh. "Look at me. At first I can't find the words, and now I've found too many. I don't even know if you can hear me. I might just be sitting in the dirt talking to myself."

He was quiet for a moment, saying nothing, just tracing the carved stone with his eyes.

"I miss you."

He swallowed hard.

"Nothing is the same without you, Porthos. You changed the world when you left, and I don't belong in it any more. I wish I could just see you one last time. I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye."

Aramis wiped at his eyes and shuddered in a breath.

"I'm drifting away... from Athos, from everything. In my heart I know what I must do, but I can't let go. I can't leave him. I'm a caged bird trapped by an old life, but I made a promise to God I must keep. What do I do? I don't know what you would have said. Would you tell me to stay with my brother, or would you see me free and urge me to seek a new home? With the grace of God I think I might find my place. Oh Porthos, the world changed, but so did I. There is nothing left for me as a musketeer. I can no longer fight, and there is no joy in it, but I can't go. Athos has nobody else."

Slowly Aramis let out a long breath and lay back in the grass to stare up at a cloudless blue sky.

"If I stay I fear he'll end up with nothing more than the hollow remains of me. Is that any better than having nothing at all? Still, perhaps he just needs something to hold on to. The memory of me might be enough. Just as we hold on to the memory of you… Are you with me Porthos? Are you here? I sometimes feel like you're watching over my shoulder, and if I turn fast enough I might catch you."

Aramis closed his eyes and let silent tears fall.

"I miss you, Porthos."

 **~oOo~**

When Aramis finally dragged himself back to the garrison Athos was waiting with a rapier. He took it with his left hand and let out a slight sigh at how awkward it felt.

After a few disappointing exchanges Athos put up his sword. "You're not trying, I can tell."

"Very well…" Aramis gave his begrudging assent.

The next exchange ended with Athos' blade at Aramis' throat. "What's the matter? You're better than this, I know you are."

He couldn't help but smile at Athos' unwavering faith in him. "Have you ever thought about leaving here? Starting a new life somewhere else?"

Part of Aramis thought it was a mistake to bring the matter up, but he couldn't stop it clouding his thoughts. After unburdening himself to Porthos, his tongue felt a little freer.

Athos' expression darkened. "I've already done it."

Ah yes. The former Comte de la Fere stood before him, how could he have forgotten?

"Did it help?"

"Running away didn't help." Athos paused thoughtfully for a moment, seemingly contemplating the rest of his answer. "You helped. You and Porthos. Perhaps I should have considered what I was running towards rather than looking back at what I was running from."

A cold feeling settled in Aramis' heart. He wasn't running away from Athos, he didn't mean to, nor did he want to. He was running towards a new life, one that might suit him better. But on hearing that answer from his friend Aramis reconsidered running anywhere. He felt ashamed for even admitting he had thought about it. Athos depended on him, and he would not go.

Aramis threw himself into the bout with a little more energy. It was enough to gain a few back steps from Athos, but he soon recovered and pushed back.

"That's more like it!"

Moments later Aramis' rapier hit the ground. His stream of curses came to a halt when a messenger rode through the archway.

Athos sheathed his sword and reached for Aramis' shoulder. "I know this is hard, but you will get there."

Aramis waited until Athos had turned to greet the messenger before whispering under his breath. "But what if I don't want to?"

He watched as Athos' face fell, and cautiously approached once the messenger had turned tail and left.

"What was that about?"

"We must make ready to receive the wounded."

Aramis saw a flash of fear cross Athos' face before the soldier took over. He shouted to a couple of men in the courtyard to assist and fetch a surgeon before striding inside. Aramis swallowed hard and followed close behind.

Once beds and medical supplies were ready Athos set to pacing the courtyard, awaiting the carts. Aramis sat at the bench, this was the moment he felt the most useless. He could not help with carrying men or stitching flesh. His hands were no longer steady enough for fine work. He could mop brows and mop blood, but it felt like precious little in the grand scheme of things. When Athos suddenly stalled it drew Aramis' attention to the archway. Sure enough a cart drew near. Athos was on it like a dog after a rabbit.

Aramis watched carefully for signs of recognition on Athos' harried face. There were none. He called a couple of men over to assist in moving the injured. But then a cold feeling took Aramis' heart as he heard a second cart breach the archway. Athos looked to it, but he was helping a wounded musketeer and couldn't move away. Aramis went instead. He trailed a hand along the side of the cart as he went, and then he rounded the back. Aramis was suddenly reluctant to raise his eyes, he feared what he might find. Two pairs of boots lay still in the bed of the cart, one leg was heavily wrapped. His hesitant eyes trailed upwards to find a chest swathed in red stained bandages, and then Aramis' breath caught in his throat.

"d'Artagnan!"

The bloodied chest belonged to the boy. He looked pale, so much so Aramis worried that he was dead.

"d'Artagnan!" Aramis shouted again and shook his boot, trying to raise a response.

And then Athos was there, he pushed Aramis aside and climbed into the back of the cart. The boy was in his arms a moment later.

"Wake up! d'Artagnan, for the love of God, wake up!" Athos gave the boy a slight shake and was rewarded with two glazed eyes opening to peer up at him.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan asked weakly.

"Yes, it's me, Aramis is here too. You're home now, you're safe."

"I'm sorry…"

Athos frowned. "Whatever for?"

"I didn't mean…" d'Artagnan paused for breath. "You're not a… a coward." His frail hand came to clutch at Athos' arm. "You're the bravest man I know... I'm sorry."

"Hush, it doesn't matter."

"It does. Thought I'd die before getting to tell you…"

In that moment Aramis came to realise he no longer looked at a boy. War had taken d'Artagnan's youth from him. No man could retain a shred of innocence when faced with such slaughter. When you walked through a field of dead men a part of you perished alongside them.

Aramis cleared his throat. "I should fetch Constance."

"No, somebody else can do that. I need you here."

"The surgeon will be more use to you than I. Besides, I'm sure she'd rather one of us tell her."

A tense moment passed before Athos uttered his assent.

 **~oOo~**

Aramis rode to the palace with all haste. His mind was a flurry of thoughts. Amidst relief that d'Artagnan lived and fear for his injuries, something whispered that Athos was no longer alone in the world. But this was not the time to heed it.

Once Aramis entered the palace he was guided to the room where the queen and Constance would be. A couple of guards stood at the door, barring his way.

"I must speak with the queen's lady in waiting as a matter of urgency."

One of them opened up to call inside and Aramis caught sight of them through the door. Constance and Anne sat by each other, nonchalantly talking, and suddenly Aramis couldn't breathe. The air in the room seemed too thin. He should have thought this moment would come. The moment their eyes locked together again and a rush of emotion took hold. He had been so caught up in getting to Constance he hadn't prepared. Of course she would be there, how had he not seen this coming? There was no smile on Anne's face, but she looked at him as one long deprived of water looked at a stream. His own expression must have been something similiar. Aramis longed to sweep into that room, to take her in his arms and whisper a few words. To breathe again would be a fine thing. It seemed he had forgotten how, but in her arms he would surely remember.

The door closed.

The sun died.

And that was the final nail in the coffin of his questionable future. How could he serve and protect the queen when every sight of her struck him so and every parting was like a knife to the chest? After everything they had been through how could he stand in her presence trying to pretend he wasn't feeling everything he felt? He _knew_ what would happen if the slightest whisper or rumour was taken for anything more serious. They had lived through it and been spared by the mercy of God. Aramis had pledged himself to God in exchange, and he was sure no such mercy would be granted twice.

He could not renege on his promise. He could not tempt fate. And he could not bear to live this close to love he could not have. It would ruin him even more than he was ruined already.

d'Artagnan was back. Athos did not need him any more. It was safe to leave…

And then Constance was there, taking his hands gently in her own. "Aramis? What is it?"

"I have news. I don't want you to worry, but d'Artagnan was brought back injured."

A hand flew to her mouth.

"He is alive and the surgeon is seeing him as we speak. I'll take you to him."

Constance looked this way and that, seemingly torn in two. "I must make my apologies to the queen."

The door opened, but Aramis could not bear to look again.

Mere moments later Constance returned and took Aramis' arm, hurrying off in her desperation. "Come on!"

 **~oOo~**

"How is he?" Aramis sat on the bench outside, but he got to his feet on seeing Athos emerge.

"Resting." Athos ran a frantic hand through his hair and joined Aramis at the bench. "He suffered a few blows from a sword. The wounds festered and were reopened along the way. He is still weak from a lingering fever, but the surgeon seems to think he will recover in time." He shot a glance back at the door. "I thought I'd give him some time alone with Constance."

Aramis gave a faint smile. "At least there is one happy reunion coming out of this."

They lapsed into silence. Aramis wondered how he was going to break the news to Athos that he was leaving. This was the moment he dreaded. This was the hardest part. Aramis took a deep breath.

In the end they spoke together.

"There's something I need to tell you."

"You're leaving, aren't you?"

Aramis looked at Athos with a stunned expression.

"You do not hide yourself as well as you think, my friend." Athos gave a bitter smile. "I sometimes think I know you better than I know myself."

"You could see it all then?" Aramis frowned. "Why did you say nothing?"

"I could see there was no more light in your eyes when we fought. I could see you rising early, eager to go to church. I could see…" Athos trailed off with a heavy breath. "I could see you've changed. And I said nothing because you had to decide for yourself. I trusted you would come to me once you knew your heart."

"But all the training we've done, why push me so hard?"

"I wanted you to see you could have a future here if you wished it. I didn't want you to think you were giving up on a hopeless life. There will always be a place for you in the regiment."

"I'm not giving up." Aramis fixed Athos with a hard eye.

"I know you're not." He reached for Aramis' arm. "And I'm glad to hear you say it."

"I just… I feel there is another life for me out there. One where I'm not swimming against the current but flowing with it. And I made a vow to God that must be honoured. I was thinking I might retire at the monastery at Douai."

"I cannot say I will be happy to see you leave, but if this is what you truly want?"

"With all my heart."

"Then go with my blessing." Athos squeezed Aramis' arm and drew back.

Aramis looked down at the table with a small smile. He returned his gaze to Athos with an earnest expression. "Thank you, my friend. I had feared telling you, I thought you would try to talk me out of it."

"Well, love is the most selfish of all the passions. You're my brother, and I love you. But to keep you here for my own contentment would be the height of selfishness. I won't hold you back."

"Will you be all right?" Aramis searched his friend's eyes.

"I'll get by. No doubt d'Artagnan will keep me occupied once he's back on his feet. It's always you or him getting into trouble."

"At least you won't have to worry about me anymore."

"Oh, I'll still worry. It'll just be those poor monks who actually have to deal with you." Athos gave a half smile as he attempted some levity. "You've changed Aramis, but not _that_ much."

Aramis laughed briefly before turning serious again. He shot a glance to the door leading to d'Artagnan's room. "Well don't spend too much time worrying. Just look after them, and remember Porthos."

"I will, and no matter how many years pass by I will never forget him. But you do know this isn't goodbye forever don't you? Douai is hardly the other side of the world now. You're speaking as if we'll never see you again."

"Nothing is certain." Aramis spoke mournfully.

"We'll meet again. I know we will. And you'll be missed Aramis, don't think that you won't."

Aramis gave a sad smile and dipped his head.

Athos reached out to clasp his shoulder. "We will always be brothers… All of us."

"And one day, we will all meet again."

When the last of them closed their eyes for the last time they would finally be reunited.

 **~oOo~**

Aramis made just one stop as he left Paris.

He tied his horse outside the gates of the cemetery and walked the lines of headstones until he reached Porthos'. They all looked the same, each grave, each stone. Some were more weathered than others, but only the etched names marked a true difference between them. As time passed the faces of those men were forgotten, they stood in identical rows of stone, soldiers to attention evermore. Aramis remembered Porthos' face. He would remember it until he was put in his own grave, and then Porthos would be nothing more than a stone soldier like the rest of them.

While Aramis remembered Porthos, he recalled little of the day they put him to rest. Snatches of it passed by as if it all took place in a dream. He supposed he wasn't really in a fit state at the time. If it were not for the grave at his feet Aramis would be inclined to believe it hadn't happened. But there was the evidence, carved in stone: "PORTHOS DU VALLON". Some part of Aramis grieved at the fact he couldn't remember, he felt it was doing his brother a dishonour. The rest of him was glad. He would rather remember Porthos as he was in life.

"My decision has been made." Aramis came to crouch before the grave. "I'm going to Douai, to honour my vow."

He paused as if expecting some response. But there was no parting of the clouds to reveal glorious sunlight, nor was there a bolt of lightning followed by a rumble of thunder.

"Athos doesn't need me anymore. d'Artagnan has returned, a bit worse for wear, but he'll recover. I'll pray for them, I'll pray for you too."

As well as Anne and his son.

And Marguerite.

He would whisper their names with clasped hands, voicing regret and love.

"I have done wrong, and I have been granted a second chance. I intend to do what good I can with it. The past cannot be undone… oh how different things would be if it could, but I can try to make a better future. I promise that at least. And maybe I will find home again, as much of a home as I can find without you."

This wasn't an ending, nothing really finished until your last breath was taken. But to Aramis it felt like an ending. Not a happy one, not a sad one, just an ending. And then he considered Athos' words… _Perhaps I should have considered what I was running towards rather than looking back at what I was running from_ … If he looked back, his previous life was ending. His time as a musketeer was drawing to a close, and he would no longer see all the people that he knew and loved. But if he looked forwards there was a new life ahead and new people to meet. If he looked forwards this was not an ending, it was a beginning.

Aramis got to his feet, brushed off his knees and began to fumble with his belt. When he was done his sash was held out across his palms, like an offering. It was given to him along with his cloak when he became a musketeer. It seemed right to relinquish it now. Aramis stepped forwards to drape the vivid blue sash over Porthos' headstone.

He stepped back, eyes blurring as he tried to focus on the material now marking Porthos out from amongst the other graves.

"Goodbye, my friend. Until we meet again."

 **~oOo~**

* * *

 **Note** : And there we end it. Thank you to everybody who has followed along, especially those kind enough to leave a review. I hope you can forgive me for my sins... I really didn't want to kill Porthos, but I have a devil on my shoulder named donna.

As for what's next, I've been working on another story these past few months. I'm six chapters in and it's doing its best to turn into an epic, I'm doing my best not to let it. Unfortunately life is still crazy busy, so it may be a while until this one sees the light of day. (I also need to get The Crooked Kind finished off for Linguam, I promise you - it will happen!)


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